


don't fade away

by dearly



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, Missing Scene, Post 1x10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-02-07 05:51:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12834663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearly/pseuds/dearly
Summary: As she unlatches the window to bring the flowers inside, she realizes the yellow is from a piece of paper wedged in between the stems.





	don't fade away

**Author's Note:**

> Set after 1x10.

When Sergeant Mahoney orders one of the cops standing near the door to take her home, she doesn’t argue. After having reassured him twice that she didn’t need an ambulance, he still had one of the EMTs look her over even after the cuts on her face and arms had already treated. Now, having been given the okay, she is escorted out of the hotel and into the back of a waiting cop car, where she tries to resist giving into the creeping feeling of guilt. Technically she  _is_ ; she’s helped a wanted, not-entirely-innocent man escape from the law. Brett’s a smart detective—if he’s trying to send her a subtle message, it’s working. He probably had enough evidence to take her into the station if he’d wanted, but luckily for her, they had an understanding. Right now, though, it wouldn’t hurt to lie low for a bit.

She has the officer stop at a drugstore so she can pick up a few supplies and feels even more conspicuous when he follows her inside. Knowing her first-aid kit is lacking at home, she grabs a bottle of aspirin, some Neosporin, and an extra-large box of Band-Aids and when she gets to the check out adds a bottle of whiskey as well. The cashier looks inquisitively at her with her scratched face to the cop standing guard behind her but thankfully says nothing as she pays and leaves.

Her bodyguard-slash-chauffeur, a baby-faced slender man with a gleaming badge that screams ‘fresh out of policy academy’, seems to be a silent sort, and makes no attempt to make conversation other than asking for a few directions to her apartment. She really doesn’t feel like talking to anyone right now. Not after what’s transpired over the past few hours. 

He must have been ordered to see that she gets in the door safely, because he follows her up the three flights of stairs and doesn’t leave until her door clicks shut. She watches through the peephole as he heads back down the stairs and, leaning against the door, breathes a sigh of relief to be finally alone.

Tugging off her shoes, she closes her eyes, reveling in the silence of her apartment, and lets the exhaustion of the day wash over her. She’s pulled many all-nighters in her time—studying in college and working on deadlines at the paper—but she’s never felt tiredness quite like this before. 

She feels it in her bones, in her muscles. Even her eyes hurt just to blink. It’s like an all-encompassing weight pressing down upon her.

Part of it is obviously the physical toll of what her body’s been through: surviving two explosions in the span of less than an hour, the brutal force with which her body hit the floor, the shrapnel and debris slicing into her skin.

But it isn’t just pain _,_ it’s also the emotional fatigue as well: the stress, the noise, the worry, and then the reliving of it to the police all over again.

Her back starts to ache so she finally pries herself off the door and sets her purchases on the kitchen counter. 

Downing a couple aspirin and a glass of water, she thinks for a moment before unscrewing the lid of the whiskey and taking a swig straight from the bottle.

As the alcohol warms her chest, she takes a deep breath and then lets out one breathy laugh.

 _Fuck_.

If she were a cat, she would’ve used up her nine lives a long time ago.

The only relief she can feel right now is that Lewis is dead and won’t be terrorizing her or the rest of New York anymore. It’s a sobering thought and not one she really wants to consider at the moment

With the bottle still in hand, she heads to the bathroom and turns on the hot water in the tub to let it fill up.

She strips off her clothes and after examination determines that the blouse is ruined but the skirt might be salvageable if her dry-cleaners can work a bit of magic. At least she wore flats today, she couldn’t imagine being yanked around by her neck in a pair of heels.

The warm bath water is a soothing balm to her wounded body. She sinks beneath the surface to drown out the world for a moment.

Turning on the hot faucet as necessary, she remains in the water until the skin of her palms turns pale and wrinkly. 

After wrapping a towel around her dripping hair, she stands in front of the mirror and catalogs her scrapes and bruises.

She’s been lucky - a few superficial wounds here and there, nothing that needed stitches. It could’ve been worse.  _Much_  worse.

The image of Frank with the entire right side of his head bleeding and arm gashed hits her with such force that her eyes well up all over again. 

He was the one that needed medical attention. Wherever he was hiding out she doubted had the resources to treat a gunshot wound and the numerous deep cuts he’d gotten.

Frank Castle was looking out for her, but who was looking out for Frank Castle.

She hoped this Micro guy had some kind of first-aid training, _otherwise_ …

Shivering she slips on her plushest robe and pulls the plug in the tub watching absentmindedly as the cloudy water disappears down the drain.

With the whiskey bottle back in hand and feeling a bit rejuvenated, she grabs the first thing she sees in her kitchen—a box of saltines and a banana—and despite not being hungry in the slightest, forces herself to eat. The granola bar she’d eaten on the way to the hotel had been her only fuel for the day. Her New Years’ resolution to eat a healthy breakfast each morning had failed spectacularly.

It’s dark now in her apartment, but she can’t quite believe that it’s still only six o’clock. It feels like days have already passed since the events of that morning.

Her phone buzzes in her purse on the floor where she’d dropped it.

There’s a lengthy string of texts from Ellison telling, almost _threatening,_  her not to come into work the next couple days. He’s heard all the details. They already have several reporters working on the story, which for once makes her relieved. Normally she’d be chomping at the bit to start writing, but right now she’s not quite sure she wants to attempt her own first-hand account just yet.

She texts back to let him know that she’s home and altogether fine and she’ll take the following day off but probably not more than that.

There are other concerned messages from co-workers asking how she’s doing and she answers with what she hopes sound like upbeat responses so they don’t worry.

Even though she knew not to expect it, she feels a little disheartened that there’s nothing from the unknown number waiting for her too.

Her thumb hovers over the button to dial, but she restrains herself and tosses the phone on the kitchen counter. The number’s probably long destroyed by now anyway. 

As a reporter, her natural instinct is one of curiosity; she likes gathering facts and filling in the gaps of a story. She hates that feeling of being left in the dark, of  _not knowing what_ _’_ _s going on in the world_. It’s difficult for her to relax when there are answers out there just waiting for her to discover.

Frank never gave her all the details. She knew he worried that it might compromise her in some way. He only wants to protect her, but she wishes he was more forthcoming. 

Today in the midst of all the chaos, there hadn’t been time for any kind of discussion.

There was never enough time with Frank. Every interaction they’d ever had was hurried and fraught, like the universe just wasn’t going to allow them to have moment’s peace before another crisis erupted dragging them apart again.

Except in this room, she thought, remembering back to a few days ago when he was handing her roses and she was hugging him like both of their lives depended on it.

When his body relaxed in her arms for that brief moment, it was like the rest of the world did too.

She sighs and looks out the window. A flash of yellow in the windowsill catches her eye.

Frank’s roses still sit on the ledge where she’d left them after their last communication.

As she unlatches the window to bring the flowers inside, she realizes the yellow is from a piece of paper wedged in between the stems. She pulls out the bright flier, thinking it just a piece of trash that had gotten blown in the breeze, but stops when she sees a smudge of dark red across the folded edge.

Her breath quickens as she unfolds the paper and reads the familiar crooked handwriting.

 

* * *

 

After a bit of scouting, he locates an unused stairwell in the rear of the building and makes it down to the street level without seeing another soul. Winding through back alleys and staying in shadows, he’s able to avoid being seen, but he knows it’s going to be virtually impossible to cross town in his condition without someone spotting him.

Plus, he still has a stop to make.

When he comes across a row of street merchants selling unlicensed NBA apparel, he waits for a few minutes until one of the sellers is distracted with a customer before walking by and casually swiping one of the black Knicks hoodies and slipping it over his head with the hood drawn up.

He would normally try to return with cash to slip in the tip jar, but with the NYPD prowling the city these booths will be long gone by then.

With the sweatshirt hiding his injuries, he blends in with the crowds and is able to move more quickly.

But when he’s standing outside of her building, he’s suddenly at a loss. It wasn’t part of the original plan, but he couldn’t  _not_  do something. Not after what they’ve both been through.

Something had shifted. Something deep. He’d seen it in her eyes, he’d felt it.

If she hadn’t urged him on, would he have still gone through that elevator latch? 

His arm starts to throb and he knows he needs to hurry. 

When he sees someone coming out of the building, it strikes an idea.

He asks the older woman for a pen. She takes one long look at him before reaching in her purse and handing one to him. He tries to thank her, but she tells him to keep it and walks off mumbling something about needing to move out of the city. 

Looking around he finds a Chinese takeout menu on the ground and uses the brick wall as a writing surface.

The words pour out of him. He thinks of the chords on his guitar, playing them in his mind as he writes.

Folding the paper in half, he looks around before making his way up the fire escape and sticking it in the roses that are still on her ledge.

He’s back on the street in minutes but still humming the song to himself as he rejoins the throng. 

 

* * *

 

_I don't wanna be just another useless memory holding you tight_

_Or just some other ghost out on the street to whom you stop and politely speak_

_When you pass on by vanishing into the night_

_Left to vanish into the night_

 

_I don’t want to fade away_

_I don’t want to fade away_

 

As she repeats them out loud, she realizes they’re lyrics, ones that ring familiar but that she can’t quite place with her mind dulled from alcohol.

She gets her phone and opens the Google app.

The answer is obvious.

She clicks on the video result and turns up the volume as she walks back to the window, letting the song float through every corner of her apartment.

She removes the towel from her head and sticks her head out. The cool breeze whips around her damp hair and chills her freshly washed skin.

She figured a while ago that Micro must have hacked one of the nearby security cameras, because Frank was always prompt when she set out the flowers. 

She wonders where he is now, if he can see her.

She stays there until the song ends and for two more replays.

 

 _I don’t want to fade away,_ he’d underlined.

 

I won’t let you, she answers back.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The song is [Fade Away](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WP9PHwClSfE) by Frank's favorite Bruce Springsteen.
> 
> I think Frank's a romantic and I tried to imagine what he might do to let Karen know he was still thinking of her after that episode.
> 
> I don't think I'll ever recover from that elevator scene.
> 
> Find me on tumblr @ [thiscaringlark](http://thiscaringlark.tumblr.com)!


End file.
